


licking the bowl clean

by verity



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Academia, Baking, Bechdel Test Pass, Community: holmestice, F/F, Female Friendship, Mild Kink, New York City
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:32:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Molly meets Sherlock's dishy significant other, opines on buttercream frosting, and hides in Greg Lestrade's bathroom from Irene Adler. Or possibly with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	licking the bowl clean

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pyjamapants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyjamapants/gifts).



> Written for **pyjamapants** for **holmestice**.

Sherlock Holmes had the cutest academic spouse _ever_.

If Molly sighed a little bit into her sherry, she could probably be forgiven.

"Chin up." Sally patted her on the shoulder.

"How did they even _meet_? I know they were roommates, but—" Molly said. It wasn't—it wasn't like she'd ever expected Sherlock to notice her advances, but she had considered the odds that Sherlock would meet anyone else capable of tolerating him for longer than half a date to be in her favor. Naturally, Molly was curious. So she'd been waiting since February for the annual holiday party at Greg's place in Queens to flush Sherlock's husband (well, boyfriend, at first) out of wherever Sherlock had been hiding him.

"Mike introduced them," Sally said, and took a sip of her rum and Coke. "Poor guy."

John Watson didn't look too unhappy with his situation, at least to Molly's eyes. Sherlock was ranting to Greg about something—probably the student newspaper, one of his favorite topics—and John was just following along, head nodding, a little smile toying at his lips. He was wearing jeans and a red sweater with belligerent deer striding across the chest. Everyone in the department read his blog, even though most of what he posted about was his work at the local clinic and Sherlock's cooking disasters and the adorable kittens they'd adopted two months ago. The post about the kittens had only made Molly want to kill herself a little.

"Poor guy," Molly echoed, swirling her sherry around in the glass.

—

Molly met Sherlock on her first day teaching at St. Bartholomew's University. She'd heard about him before, of course—Dr. Lestrade had called him the comparative literature department's "eccentric genius"—but he'd been missing from the interview process and the congratulatory brunch that followed her hiring. Everyone had been so welcoming, Dr. Lestrade (the department chair - he specialized in _noir_ detective fiction), Dr. Donovan (who focused on experimental fiction by women of color), Dr. Stanton (resident Yiddish lit scholar), and everyone right on down to Ted Anderson, the departmental secretary. Sally and Ted had both warned her about Sherlock, but Molly hadn't taken them all that seriously. She was still overwhelmed by the wonder that she, Molly Hooper, had landed a tenure track job straight out of grad school, and at _Barts U_ in _Manhattan_ , no less.

It was awesome. It was so totally awesome.

On the way back from her very first section of Text and Context 101, Molly stopped in the departmental office to pick up the mail and swipe a yogurt pretzel or two from the jar on Ted's desk. Maybe if she'd been paying a little more attention, she would have heard their voices from down the hall, but she was still coasting on the wave of excitement from class. So, when she swung open the door, she was fairly surprised to find a man in a theatrically swishy coat having a full-on tantrum.

"Anderson, anyone with the intelligence of a sponge would have noticed the syllabi were not collated, and I know that copier is fully capable of stapling them, so your foolish waste of my very valuable time is completely without explanation. Moreover, there is no version of Comic Sans for the Cyrillic alphabet, so I am assuming the font choice for this flier is an extremely juvenile attempt at a practical joke."

"No one can read—" Ted started, but the man interrupted him.

"Does your wife know about the anonymous notes you leave for Professor Donovan? Does Lestrade know that you've been brewing decaf in the staff lounge for months because you're afraid drinking 10 cups of a coffee a day will kill him? I can make your life very unpleasant, Anderson. Do not cross me."

"Right," Ted said through gritted teeth.

The man whirled around, then, coat swirling behind him, and, oh, he was handsome despite his scowl, tall and pale and fit, all designer clothes and unruly black curls that dipped a bit low over one eye, and on top of that, there was that sexy British accent. Molly felt faint, which was embarrassing. She worked on Mary Shelley, after all, not… Emily Bronte. 

"Dr. Hooper," the man said. "Excuse me." He pushed past her and into the hall, slamming the heavy door behind him.

Molly blinked. How—how did he know who she was? And—a _sponge_?

Ted sighed and shook his head. "Well, that's Sherlock Holmes," he said. "Welcome to the department."

Later, looking over her lecture notes for the first day of Women's Literature in the British Empire 342, Molly realized she might be a tiny bit in love.

—

Before she properly met Sherlock Holmes, though, had an actual conversation with him (they'd had three in the past two years where she'd actually gotten to speak), she met his nemesis. One of them, anyway.

According to Sally, there were three. "Dr. Moriarty, who used to teach Russian language," she said, ticking them off on her fingers. "He's dead now, possibly to spite Sherlock, although he was 90, so there's that. After he kicked it, they eliminated the Russian department altogether, which was funny until we found out they were sticking Sherlock in with us. And then there's his brother Mycroft, teaches history at Yale, very into the dead white men if you know what I mean. But the one you're going to meet is Irene Adler. She did her dissertation on the cultural response to _Lolita_ in the United States and she's tenured in Women and Gender Studies. They hate each other. Like, want-to-fuck hate, except that Irene's a lesbian and Sherlock's an ice princess so we'll thankfully be spared the horrifying children."

"Really," Molly said, leaning against the cushioned back of the booth. They were at Sally's favorite bar, which was all the way out in Brooklyn but had a Tardis bathroom. That trumped the annoyance of taking the subway back into the city late at night as far as Molly was concerned.

"I'm just telling you now because I don't want Irene to get _started_ on that man and Soo Lin - she's in Art History - is terrified of him. So we've banned Sherlock as a topic of discussion at Girly Social Hour."

"I thought we changed the name," Irene said, sliding into the booth on Sally's side. She was pale, gorgeous, and snappily attired, with a manicure that looked way too expensive for a Prospect Park bar. "You're not young enough for ironic hipster sexism, so don't try to get me to buy that load of manure."

"I like Girly Social Hour," Molly said. "It's cute."

"Honey, you are drinking a Shirley Temple," Irene said. "We have to fix that before you're allowed to vote on the name."

"Cosmos all around," Soo Lin suggested, sitting on Molly's side; Molly hastily scooted over to make room. 

"Yuck," Sally said. "Beer for me, thanks."

"You and I are having some JD on the rocks," Irene said to Molly. "Don't listen to a word Carrie Bradshaw says over here."

Even after several drinks, no one could come to a verdict on what to rename Girly Social Hour, so Sally declared a mistrial.

—

After she finished her sherry, Molly had nothing to do with her hands: inaugural Girly Social Hour excepted, she was a one-drink girl if she drank at all. The living room was full up: Sally was flirting with Ted (Sally needed a one-drink rule), but not so obviously that Molly needed to swoop in and save her. Greg and Mike were talking shop over the last of the latkes, and Greg's wife Vi and John were playing Scrabble. Everyone else had wandered off somewhere. Sherlock was probably hounding Fred Dimmock about his icing technique—they'd been promised cake—in the kitchen, but who knew where Irene had gotten to. The last time Molly had seen her, she was talking to Jen Wilson from PR/Ad about the horrors of PETA's latest campaign.

Molly fished her phone out of the purse. _Come trounce vi & sherlock's doc @ scrabble w me?_

Her phone vibrated seconds after she hit send: Irene had some seriously nimble texting fingers. _Too entertained by watching S make an ass of himself w/ candy thermometer & buttercream._

Before Molly had time to reply, her phone buzzed again. _Okay, buy the logic behind the corn syrup but jesus fuck that's unholy. F says mother rolling in grave._

And again. _Saving one side of the spatula for you._

"Aren't you supposed to let that cool first?" Molly said, stepping over the pet gate into the kitchen. Greg's corgis nearly took her out at the knee before she was halfway across, but Irene grabbed her arm and steadied her. 

"Down, Honoria!" Irene said, nudging Honoria back with one foot and blocking Florence with the other. "Bad girl! Sorry, Mol," she added, letting her go. "They're Scylla and Charybdis."

"Oh, I'm all right." Molly straightened her top and smoothed her skirt. "Really, aren't you supposed to let it get down to room temperature? The frosting?"

" _Yes_ ," Sherlock said, all Byronic petulance. "Very good, Molly. _Someone_ here is capable of rudimentary culinary practice."

"I usually eat it out of the tub," Irene said, bracing herself against the table when one of the corgis butted cheerfully against her leg. She lowered herself to a crouch and scratched behind Honoria's ears. "You want to be good, don't you, darling?Behave and I'll give you a treat."

"We have to serve the cake before Mike drinks himself into the ground and everyone else goes home." Fred frowned. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows and he was wearing an apron shaped like a Christmas tree. It had blinking lights. "If _someone_ would have just let me run to the corner store when I realized I'd forgotten the cream cheese, this wouldn't be a problem."

"I'm for cake now." Molly forced herself to look away from Fred's apron. "Sorry, Sherlock."

Irene rose with ridiculous grace for someone wearing four-inch heels. "You heard the lady, Dimmock. Snap to it."

"Do you really eat frosting out of the tub?" Molly leaned in to whisper in Irene's ear. "I thought it was just me."

"When Hillary lost the primaries, Duncan Hines was there for my sorrows," Irene said, not bothering to whisper.

"Heresy!" Sherlock said, not bothering to whisper either. He squared his shoulders and glared at Irene. 

"Sherlock, you're not a US citizen, you didn't vote." Irene rolled her eyes and glared right back.

Molly was maybe a little tipsy from her glass of sherry, but for a moment it seemed like the world zoomed in on the two of them, all polished and fiery and gorgeous against the backdrop of Greg's new stainless steel fridge. Sherlock loomed, one lock of jet black hair artfully curling against his brow, collar unfastened to show a long column of white throat, and Irene loomed back, auburn hair tumbling over her shoulders, hourglass figure traced by her slim golden sheath. Molly finally got what Sally had told her two years ago. It was like a scene out of a movie, one where they'd been fighting about forbidden desire or organized crime instead of grocery store frosting.

Then Irene turned and caught her gaze, and Molly froze. The world came back in focus with a sudden whoosh of flushed cheeks and barking corgis and Fred saying, "Sherlock, I am icing the goddamn cake."

"It's not icing, it's frosting," Sherlock said. "Icing is—"

Irene was still looking at her, eyelids lowered, knowing, and Molly said hastily, "Excuse me, I've—I left my purse in the other room." Then she almost fell over the pet gate again.

—

Given that their acquaintance had been forged in the fires of contention (see: froofy mocktails versus honest drinks), Molly hadn't expected to strike up a friendship with Irene. They ended up seeing a lot of each other, though: Molly taught at least one course cross-listed in Women and Gender Studies every semester and they both volunteered as faculty advisors for the student-run sexual assault crisis hotline. Molly took over safe space training from a departing lecturer, while Irene organized the annual production of _The Vagina Monologues_. (Molly had mostly gotten over her difficulty saying the v-word in public, but helping out Irene was kind of a trial by fire.) At first she'd been intimidated by Irene, but the weekly rite of Girly Social Hour made it easier to see Irene as her equal, someone whose chief desire at the end of the week was a drink and a basket of disco fries.

Still, even though she and Sally had offices right next to each other, Irene was the person who turned up most often during the day with an article to look at or the latest round of flyers for sexual assault prevention workshops. Irene helped her find a vet when she got Toby; she brought Irene black and white cookies from Dean & Deluca when Irene was recovering from the flu. Irene never talked about herself, although she had a lot to say about the feminist blogosphere and how wrong Sherlock Holmes was about every facet of the universe, but Molly didn't mind. She was the person Irene called at 11pm when she felt like hitting up L'Express for a midnight steak, and Molly figured that counted for something.

—

Molly turned to the traditional refuge of embarrassed women: she hid in the bathroom. She found guest bathrooms very soothing: they always had little shaped soaps you didn't use that sat in a cute tray on the sink, old magazines, and sometimes toilet paper cozies. Greg's had a cross-stitched sampler on one wall and a good selection of last year's _Country Living_. Molly sat down on the toilet lid and fished one out of the magazine rack. She'd take some deep breaths and read that column with the antique furniture appraisals, and she'd feel better. And then she'd escape. That was a good plan.

A few minutes passed before someone knocked on the door. "Sorry!" Molly shut the magazine and slid it back into the rack. "I'll, I'll be right out."

"It's me," Irene said through the door. "Do you mind—may I come in?"

"Uh, okay," Molly said. She was sufficiently rattled that she didn't think anything of it until Irene was locking the door behind her and they were crammed into the small space together, Molly pressed up against wall behind the door and Irene leaning back against the sink. Molly could see herself reflected in the mirror, face pale and cheeks red. She closed her eyes. This was worse, this was so much worse.

"Hey," Irene said. This near, Molly could smell her perfume, roses and wine and musk. "I didn't know. You don't have to be embarrassed."

"There's nothing to know!" Molly's voice had gone all quiet and tiny. "It's—oh, anyone would find you attractive. It's nothing, I'm so sorry, we can just forget all about—"

"Is this about Sherlock?" Irene stepped closer. "Or is it me?"

"It's—" Molly surprised herself by saying, "Sherlock's an ass and he lives in an alternate universe where buttercream can travel through time."

"He's very pretty, though," Irene said neutrally.

"Yes," Molly said. "But he thinks he's always right and he wants to tell everyone what to do. Pretty doesn't mean I like him."

"I'm always right and I tell everyone what to do."

"Yes," Molly smiled. "But I like you."

She felt a hand come to rest lightly on her hip, felt the heat of Irene's body as Irene leaned closer. Eyes closed, her other senses were dialed up a notch: her skin felt aflame with sensation, a faint touch headier than a more direct one.

"Can I tell you what to do?" Irene's breath was warm on Molly's neck.

"I want you to," she said, pulse pounding in her ears. "Please."

Irene started to stroke her hip, just lightly tracing the seam of Molly's skirt, fingers flirting with the hem of her top. Molly fought the urge to strain into Irene's grasp, to pull her hand to the skin beneath. "Keep your eyes closed," Irene said. "Stay quiet."

"Okay." Irene bent her head to nip at Molly's neck and Molly whimpered a little, barely cut off a gasp. "I'll try," she whispered.

"I know you will," Irene said, kissing her throat. "You want to be a good girl, I know you do."

When Irene kissed her lips, Molly fell back against the wall and had to plant her hands on the wall behind her for support. Molly was not so much succumbing to passion as she was unable to balance in heels, but Irene didn't seem to mind. She just kept kissing Molly, slipped her tongue between Molly's lips, expert, amazing, overpowering, like nothing else in Molly's perfectly staid academic life. She held up Molly, too; put her hands on Molly's sides, thumbs brushing against the bottom of Molly's push-up bra. Molly couldn't really feel them through the padding, which was just about as frustrating as the fact Irene had pushed a thigh between hers after telling her to keep still.

"Keep your hands there." Irene pulled back for a moment. "I like that. Can I touch you?"

"Okay," Molly said again, "okay," and then Irene was kissing her again, clever hands sliding behind her to unhook her bra. She pushed her hands up beneath it to caress Molly's breasts, brushed her palms over Molly's nipples, and Molly shuddered, moaned into Irene's mouth, almost came right then.

"My, you're sensitive," Irene said, withdrawing her hands. Molly had to choke down a sob of disappointment. "Can I—"

"Yes, yes, whatever you want," Molly said, " _please_ , just—"

"So bossy." Irene sounded amused. She reached down with one hand, put her hand up Molly's skirt, and didn't even bother to take off her panties, just pushed them to the side. Molly panted with the effort of not moving, not crying out, not bucking eagerly into the fingers toying at her entrance. Then Irene pushed one in, and she couldn't help it: she bit her lip so she didn't cry out, hard enough that she could taste the iron tang of blood. "You're so wet," Irene said, adding another finger, fucking Molly with them. "You're—"

When her thumb brushed Molly's clit, Molly came. It was one of those orgasms where she couldn't breathe for a moment, noise and light ceased to register, and then she was pulling away, still trembling but oversensitive already. Irene reached for her with her free hand, steadied her; Molly laughed, shaky, and opened her eyes.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey yourself," Irene said, and kissed her lightly.

"Don't I get to touch you?" Molly said, straightening herself. She didn't have a lot of experience, but she was pretty sure that was how these things worked.

Irene's face did something funny for a moment, but it ended in a smile. "Later?" she said. "I think we have a party to get back to."

"Oh my god," Molly said, remembering: party. Departmental holiday party. In Greg's house. And she'd just had sex in _Greg's guest bathroom_.

"Relax," Irene said, turning to wash her hands. "No one's paying attention. Sherlock and Fred are having it out, or Ted's making a transparent play for Sally—it's okay, Greg's got a handle on it—no one's going to miss us."

Molly cleaned herself up, straightened her hair, and a few deep breaths, willing the tell-tale head-to-toe blush to fade. "Okay," she said. "Let's go. I was serious, I mean, about Scrabble. And they ought to be finished with the cake."

"To the frosting!" Irene said. and opened the door.

John Watson was right in front them, hand raised to knock. He blinked. "Oh, I'm sorry. I'd just been waiting—" His eyes flashed between them, up and down, and Molly felt more naked than she'd been with Irene's hand up her skirt, like everything was plain for him to see.

"Some things are worth a little wait," Irene said, pushing past John without sparing him a glance. "Come on, Molly. I'm licking the bowl if someone's made off with the spatula."

  
**  
[Practically Perfect Classic Buttercream (and yes, you do need to beat it until it's cool)](http://delicioushouse.blogspot.com/2011/07/practically-perfect-classic-buttercream.html)   
**   



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